


lust only grows like anger and revenge

by hamiltrashed



Series: The Room Where It Happens [1]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Sex, And hates to love him just a little, Angry Sex, Everyone else is fairly background, Featuring way too many references to this damn musical that has ruined my life, Ham loves to hate Jefferson, Ham sort of pines for Washington, Hate Sex, Laurens pines for Ham, M/M, Snarky Banter, This is mostly just A-dot-Ham and TJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Hamilton wants to do is rise, stop being the middle-class kid with an ill-fitting suit and achieve something real. But he goes unnoticed by his boss, Washington and too-noticed by his friend Laurens. What to do but settle for someone who neither likes him nor cares enough to truly hate him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	lust only grows like anger and revenge

**Author's Note:**

> My first Hamilfic. Born out of obsessively listening to the cast recording and twisting a few things to fit the fun hate-y sex I had in mind.
> 
> Bless my friend and usual beta Michelle_A_Emerlind for reading this over for me (first in snippets when I had the idea and then the whole thing when it was finished) even though this isn't her usual fandom. Best of muffins. <3 And bless the rest of my writer group as well for listening to my Hamilton outbursts and even wanting to read snippets of this even though they too aren't familiar with the musical. You all improve my life. <3

“Your signature, sir.”  
  
Hamilton slides a stack of paperwork across the desk, hoping for Washington to look up, to notice him beyond the vague concept that he exists, but he doesn’t. He merely expertly flips through page after page, signing his stupidly perfect, swirling signature across the bottom of each and handing them back, eyes on his computer screen, dismissing Hamilton with a wave of his hand.

As usual, that handsome face stays turned away, even as Hamilton walks slowly from his office, daring to glance back once… twice. Hamilton feels a stab of resentment, possibly lust, somewhere deep in his belly and retreats back to his desk, fingers rubbing at his temple, trying to soothe the impending headache before it starts. He supposes he should feel lucky in a way but he keeps trying to tell Washington he can handle more, that he can handle the financials because he’s good at that, had once aspired to be Secretary of the U.S. Treasury, but without the proper credentials, he’s barely more than Washington’s secretary. What makes it all worse is that Hamilton can't be sure if he really wants Washington or just wants to be him, in his immaculately tailored suits that Hamilton could never afford, with all the power any man could want, and a smile that could send anyone with a weak heart to an early grave.

And even worse than that is John, who hangs on Hamilton's every word, rapt, looking at him like he can't imagine anything he wants more. Hamilton has noticed. Hamilton has noticed a lot about Laurens, including that he has a face like sunshine, that he's all long, lanky limbs Hamilton can't exactly say he _wouldn’t_ appreciate wrapped around him, and certainly that he's a more appropriate pursuit than his boss. But he’s also the safe bet, and despite the fact that Hamilton doesn’t discourage his affections, he’s never played it safe. He’d much rather swing for the harder to hit fastball even if Laurens is pretty and probably wouldn’t leave Hamilton’s bed even if it were on fire.  
  
Of course, the fastball in this case isn’t really Washington, because the pitch would have to be thrown in the first place for Hamilton to take a crack at it, and Washington hasn’t even picked up the ball. It’s that dickhead know-it-all _Jefferson_ , and that's a whole other can of worms, not least because he _hates_ Jefferson (the feeling is mutual if Jefferson's constant dirty looks and snide remarks are anything to go by). But Jefferson... oh, Jefferson would be _so_ good. Hamilton knows it. Knows that despite the way they despise each other, the electricity that crackles between them is not based solely on that. Hamilton knows that if he really wanted, he could coax Jefferson inside his apartment and inside _him_ , and Jefferson would fuck him senseless and stupid. And because Hamilton falls easy and hard, he'd show up to work the next day pining for Jefferson just the way Laurens pines for _him_.

Bad idea, he must be out of his goddamn mind, but Hamilton thinks about it more and more, the hate sex they could have, the way... the way Jefferson's tongue would taste. Probably like magic and stardust, like a warm sunny day, like a poem Hamilton would write if he weren't busy writing Washington's memos, like... god, this is _stupid_. He'd probably taste just like his over-expensive, ethically sourced Guatemalan coffee and his stupid, hipster quinoa salads he eats every day for lunch while Hamilton stares from across the room, quickly shoveling his much more affordable McDonald's fries into his face and living on a prayer that he'll maintain whatever figure he has.

 _I used to be smarter than this_ , Hamilton tells himself, even as he whips a piece of Washington’s custom stationery from the printer on his desk and starts drafting a pretend note to Jefferson. _From the desk of George Washington_ , to the illustrious asshole, Thomas Jefferson: Please sleep with me at your earliest convenience. Does this sound too desperate? Check yes or no. Most assuredly _not_ yours, A-dot-Ham.

There’d be a real thrill in folding it up into a little paper airplane and flying it over to Jefferson’s desk, but with his luck, it’d land on Burr’s desk or worse, Laurens’ desk, and wouldn’t that be fun to explain to Burr’s evil eye or Laurens’ puppy dog face. He could pass by Jefferson’s desk on the way to the restroom he doesn’t currently need to use, put it directly in his hands, but then he’d have to risk seeing the smug look of satisfaction, the one that tells Hamilton exactly how much Jefferson knows, and Hamilton is sure that in this one instance, Jefferson actually _does_ know it all.  
  
It’s not exactly like he’s been subtle when he helplessly stares at the curve of Jefferson’s ass in that suit the higher end of Washington’s payscale bought him. And damn, it’s hard not to be bitter that Washington hasn’t yet trusted him more, that he so badly desires the man whom Washington _does_ seem to trust. And sometimes Hamilton can’t tell if he wants Jefferson just because he always wants everything that’s bad for him, or if he’s using the fire Jefferson puts in his blood as a middle ground for the things he _can’t_ have: Washington, success, a bespoke Mulligan suit that fits him and not a cheap, off-the-rack thing that makes him look like he was poured into it.  
  
Whatever the case, Hamilton _does_ want him, and because he’s feeling the sting of Washington’s dismissal, he abruptly settles for using his most charming words to finagle Jefferson’s personal e-mail address out of James Madison, Jefferson’s closest friend, who sits nearby. He’s sure Washington wouldn’t deign to lower himself to a task so menial as snooping through the company e-mail accounts of his employees, but Hamilton won’t take the chance that someone might read how badly he wants Jefferson to bend him over. Of course, there’s a chance Jefferson might just _tell_ everyone, but Hamilton trusts him to keep playing his cards close to his chest, like always, to keep the satisfaction Hamilton knows he will feel upon receiving such an e-mail to himself for a rainy day when he feels the need to remind himself that Hamilton finally caved.

 _Alright, you smug bastard,_ Hamilton begins. Backspace, backspace, backspace into infinity. He tries a hundred different combinations of words, and not one of them doesn’t sound like a terribly crude insult or a ribald proposition from a prostitute. Finally, he settles for _So, are we gonna do this or what?_ and hits send before he has another minute to talk himself out of it. He raises his eyes to Jefferson’s desk, watches him across the room while he waits, waits, waits…  
  
It takes several minutes, but slowly, Jefferson’s eyes find his, and his whole mouth twists itself into a sneering, self-satisfied smile. Hamilton only glares in return until Jefferson’s eyes go back to the screen, and his reply comes a minute later.

 _How much do you charge?_  
  
Hamilton’s face goes hot, burns with anger and then shame that Jefferson gets this much of a rise out of him. He doesn’t look at him, only slams his hand on the mouse and clicks reply, tries to write something witty and make it sound as though Jefferson didn’t get to him at all.

_You couldn’t afford me on your best day but I’m willing to offer a discount for the less fortunate._

When Jefferson reads this response, there’s a short, sharp burst of laughter from his direction that he covers up quickly with a cough. Another minute, and Hamilton has his reply.

_A five finger discount? Because I’m gonna ride it like I stole it._

Hamilton bites his lip and grips the edge of the desk to keep himself from standing up and shouting at Jefferson in front of everyone. Instead, he gets himself under control and sends one final e-mail.

 _We’ll see if you can keep up._  
  
He includes his address and a time, and almost writes not to be late before he remembers this isn’t a date. It’s a hookup and it’s a hookup with the devil himself and you don’t add pseudo-romantic little quips to communications with Satan.

Hamilton counts down the minutes after that, taps his fingers on his desk much to the annoyance of Angelica who sits to his left, and then he’s out of his seat like a gunshot the second the clock hits five. He goes home, tries to get comfortable and wait (always with the waiting), refuses to shower, to try and look _nice_ because nothing about this is going to be nice. And when the door damn near splinters under the force of Jefferson’s knock an hour later, he certainly does not _run_ to open it, because that would be a new level of desperation he has not yet achieved nor aspires to.  
  
When Hamilton pulls the door open, there’s a moment just before the light hits Jefferson’s face where he is a mere silhouette, standing imposing in Hamilton’s doorway. And then Jefferson is bathed in dancing colour from Christmas lights he still hasn’t taken down, and Hamilton can see the way the corner of Jefferson’s mouth is already turning up in amusement. It makes Hamilton’s blood boil and sends a wicked shiver down his spine at the same time.

"Alexander," Jefferson says, and Hamilton wants to correct him to his last name, to Alex even, but he knows Jefferson won't acquiesce even if he asks. He steps inside, closes the door, locks it behind himself as if the privacy of Hamilton’s apartment does not contain enough security so that nobody will know he’s moments away from from fucking Alexander Hamilton, his inferior, his _nemesis_ (because Hamilton’s got a flair for the dramatic). Jefferson smiles as if he can read Hamilton’s thoughts. "Alexander, this was way too easy."

"Fuck you," Hamilton says, and Jefferson reaches out, yanks him in by his shirt, licks into his mouth and kisses him just as dirty as Hamilton always imagined he would.

"Oh, come now. Save the cussing for when I'm deep enough in you to warrant it."

"Fuck you," Hamilton repeats, kissing him again, biting his lip, nipping the stupid smirk right off his face, if only for a second.

Jefferson's tongue runs across the indent of Hamilton’s teeth in his lip and he imitates the coy look Hamilton knows is often on his own face. "Alexander," Jefferson says again, fingers trailing down the buttons of Hamilton's shirt, meeting his eyes and tilting his head, "you wouldn't know what to _do_ with your cock in me."

"We could find out," Hamilton suggests, then challenges, "or maybe you're afraid."

"Now, now," Jefferson chides. "You know that'll never work on me. Be a good boy and turn around."

And that pisses off Hamilton more than he can express, that Jefferson treats him like the cocky, overconfident kid he knows he is (but goddamn it, he shouldn't get to do that). More than that, it pisses him off that he obeys, that he turns away and lets Jefferson wrap his arms around him, start loosening his tie, unbuttoning him one by one by one. Then his belt goes, and his pants come undone, and Jefferson toys with the waist of his boxers.

Jefferson's mouth plants kisses along his neck, and his curls, let down for once, tickle Hamilton's skin. He sucks at Hamilton’s earlobe and whispers, "I'll admit, you're a pretty one."

And Hamilton hates himself for the betrayal of his friend but the words are already on his tongue, and he snaps back, "I'm not Laurens, don't call me that."

Jefferson laughs. "I haven't had the pleasure of examining Laurens up close. Have _you_?"

"No," Hamilton grits out, even though he knows Jefferson would use any answer he gives against him.  
  
Sure enough, the grin is evident in Jefferson’s voice when he says, "Oh, so you _have_ been waiting, just for me."  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Hamilton replies dismissively, pulling forward and craning his head around to look at him. “Heard you’re packing and you’re cheaper than a vibrator with twice the stamina and no batteries needed.”

Hamilton hopes for a look of shock, even one of Jefferson’s trademarked dirty glares, but he receives neither. Jefferson grins and waves a hand. “I’ve got at least _ten_ times the stamina, so I think it’s you who’ll be needing to keep up in the end. Face forward, please.”  
  
Hamilton does, grumbling pathetically the whole while. “Oh, I’m pretty, but not pretty enough to look at while you fuck me, huh?”

“Do shut up when you feel the urge,” Jefferson says, “I won’t mind.” Without warning, he yanks Hamilton’s pants down along with his boxers, grabs a handful of his ass, digs his nails in until Hamilton whimpers. He presses his chin into Hamilton’s shoulder, scrapes his teeth along his jaw and whispers, “If it will help calm your busy little mind, I want you this way right now because it’s easier access to this ass. And later, I’ll have you on your back, because I wouldn’t miss the way your eyes will roll up into that _pretty_ little head when my dick hits parts of you that you didn’t know existed.”

Hamilton starts to open his mouth, to say something that he hopes will silence Jefferson’s arrogance for even half a second, but Jefferson claps a hand over his mouth and Hamilton merely mumbles. When he takes it away, Hamilton stays quiet (a hard feat for him, he recognises, as he is prone to shooting off at the mouth much more often than the average person), pushing back against Jefferson and making his demands known that way.

And then he takes it a step further, putting every effort into not making a peep when Jefferson’s hand finds his cock, strokes slow and rough at the same time. There’s no way to stop his body responding, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to give Jefferson the satisfaction right now of sounding like he’s enjoying one of those (big, flawless) hands touching him. And that’s what works, that’s what gets Hamilton his first point on the board, because Jefferson gives an irritated huff and says, “You can make noise _now_.”  
  
But Hamilton resists as long as he can, because he’s not going to let Jefferson direct his every move, not even close. He only gives in when he feels Jefferson’s fingers pressing against his lips, when he hears the word _suck_ muttered heavily into his ear. And it shouldn’t be sexy, but Hamilton gives it his all, the way he would if it were Jefferson’s cock in his mouth, moaning when Jefferson pulls them free with a wet little pop and presses them right up tight against his hole, rubbing and caressing and generally just doing his best to make sure Hamilton knows his bullshit won’t be tolerated. Not tonight.

And Hamilton thought he’d have more control than this when he sent that first e-mail, but as it turns out, that may have been showing his hand too soon, and a terrible hand at that. He has no more cards left to play here, nearly naked with Thomas fucking Jefferson’s hands on him, legs quivering already and so much vulnerability in the set of his shoulders that it’s wholly embarrassing. He expects Jefferson to whip out his phone any second and start snapping photos, sending them to everyone either of them have ever heard of. But Jefferson, despite the fact that his horse is high enough to touch the sky, is not quite that juvenile.

No, Hamilton felt it when he pressed against him, that Jefferson was already hard and he’ll bet that he’s a good deal as needy as Hamilton feels, even if he’d never admit to it. Plus, Hamilton suspects, he’d weasel his way into fucking anyone who challenges him in any way, just to say that he did. Not that he’d had to weasel his way into this one; Hamilton might as well have stripped down and spread his legs on Jefferson’s desk. And wouldn’t _that_ just be a picture.

Hamilton pushes back now against Jefferson’s fingers, almost daring him to slip one inside if only so Hamilton can prove he can take the sweet _burn_ of fullness he hasn’t felt in so long with minimal preparation. But he’s not that stupid, so instead, he says, “You gonna stop teasing and fuck me already or do I have to get romantic and suck your dick or something?”

Jefferson laughs. “Ever the talker. Tell you something, Alexander, that’d be the only thing that big mouth of yours is good for. You run it and run it and run it but give you some cock and you’d take to that like a fish to water. Shut you right up.”

“Fuck off.”  
  
“Am I wrong?”  
  
“Only every day,” Hamilton tells him.

Jefferson just keeps on grinning that stupid gorgeous grin on that stupid gorgeous _face_ , and Hamilton tries to stop letting him win, but he’s not good at backing down, has never been able to not shoot back. He’s always needed the last word, and this is no different, and he wishes Jefferson would just fuck him and be gone already, because he didn’t ask him over for witty banter and teasing. Hamilton only hopes this will get it all out of his system, that he’ll come to his senses sometime shortly after he _comes_ , maybe settle with someone respectable and lovely to look at like Laurens, someone who actually wants him, someone he can learn the value of satisfaction with instead of dealing solely in overindulgence and constant yearning.

But for now, he takes charge for the briefest moment, kicking his pants away from his ankles, grabbing Jefferson’s wrist in a bruising grip, and all but dragging him down the hall to the bedroom. This is no better or level a playing field than three steps inside Hamilton’s doorway, but Hamilton still knows these sheets better than anyone because this is his territory, and if he has to use one of them to strangle Jefferson after this is done… well, at least he’ll be able to rest comfortably after.  
  
Hamilton tugs at the buttons on his sleeves, then strips his shirt off, pulling his tie over his head. “Your turn,” he says, and this is good, this moment, because it forces a hint of his own vulnerability onto Jefferson when he has to stand there and strip down. Or so he thinks.  
  
Really, Jefferson begins taking off his clothes and Hamilton starts to feel like putting all of his back on. It’s not that he thinks there’s anything particularly wrong with his body, only that by comparison, he’d be no one’s first choice. Jefferson is built in a way it shouldn’t be possible for a human being to be built. It’s like looking at a sculpture; everything is in just the perfect position. All the stars have aligned to make Thomas Jefferson a reality and it makes Hamilton mad and if possible, even harder.

“See somethin’ you like?” Jefferson asks, all knowing smile and perfect collarbones and chest hair and abs and -- Jesus Christ, thick, hard cock that makes Hamilton shiver and his mouth water. He starts cataloguing it all quickly, filing each bit of Jefferson’s body away for later because this will never happen again (Hamilton won’t let it), and this is a sight he can’t stand to forget in spite of himself.

And then, because he wants to be an asshole, he says, “Yeah, you’re alright.”

Jefferson doesn’t buy it. He closes the distance between them and shoves Hamilton backward onto the bed. Hamilton scrambles up toward his pillow and Jefferson, all the more intimidating for being above him (in every single way), climbs on top, sits on his thighs, leans forward and lets his dick slide against Hamilton’s in the most exquisite way and _oh god, I’m gonna die like this,_ he thinks. Jefferson's hands trail upward along Hamilton’s stomach, his chest, and he pinches a nipple. The feeling goes straight to Hamilton’s cock.  
  
His breath catches in his throat and Jefferson says belatedly, “I think we both know I’m a little more than alright, Alexander.”

“Cocky much?” Hamilton groans, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on when he’s trying to challenge Jefferson and fighting back a moan of his name at the same time.

“Only when it’s true.”

“Prove it,” Hamilton says and he reaches down, starts stroking Jefferson’s cock, earning himself another point on the board when Jefferson actually moans. But Hamilton’s always been good with his hands, writes day and night, _creates_ , which Jefferson wouldn’t know a goddamn thing about, except for the part where Hamilton’s _creating_ a brand new problem for him right now.

Jefferson pulls Hamilton’s hand away and steadies himself. “You got anything that’s gonna fit me?” he asks.

“I told you,” Hamilton says, and he pushes Jefferson off balance for a moment so he can reach over to his bedside table, allowing himself a half second to consider the fact that he bought it at Ikea for $25, that everything Jefferson owns is probably $200 and mahogany. He pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom he won’t admit the size of out loud for fear of sounding like the size queen he is, and tosses them both at Jefferson. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Of course, the fact that Hamilton has these condoms doesn’t mean much considering it’s been at least six months since he’s had any use for them, but there’s a look on Jefferson’s face, not of jealousy but certainly of competition, that says Hamilton should shut his mouth about that. Score another point for him.

Hamilton watches, doesn’t touch, while Jefferson sorts himself out and then, because he might as well at this point, he spreads his legs and gives Jefferson his best come-and-get-it look. Jefferson, being the man that he is and not one to back down, starts pushing his way inside Hamilton with shaking hips. And god, does the look of restraint on his face turn Hamilton on; it says a lot about how hard he’s holding back, how much control he is trying to maintain by not allowing his hips to simply snap forward and bury himself in Hamilton. Because it’s clear he wants to, even with his teeth biting his lip, his soft grunts he won’t allow to become moans. So no matter what he thinks of Hamilton personally, Hamilton is satisfied in the knowledge that his ass is just that good, that Jefferson wants it and his whole body is straining with the effort not to let it show.

Hamilton’s thighs are trembling as he opens for Jefferson, and his back arches already, his fingers gripping the sheets. This is good, better than good, the way Jefferson fills him up so completely, the way his cock twitches and leaks precome against his belly, the way it feels to rock his hips up into it, to lock his legs around Jefferson’s waist.

Jefferson tries to speak, and Hamilton’s name comes out with a noise in the middle: Alex- _gasp_ -ander. Hamilton laughs. Jefferson collects himself, presses a hand hard against Hamilton’s chest and pushes him against the mattress, before trying again. “Alexander. When’s the last time you had it this good?”  
  
And Hamilton laughs again, because he finally feels like he has some control over this. “Drop the act, you haven’t even gotten anywhere yet,” he says as Jefferson pulls away, pulls out, just barely, an inch or two. He uses his legs to pull Jefferson back in, _hard_. “When’s the last time _you_ had it this good?”

“You talk an awful lot,” Jefferson hisses, eyes narrowed.  
  
“Maybe I’d forget how if you put that cock of yours to use and _fucked_ me already,” Hamilton says, and it’s less of an attempt at a comeback than it is a desire, because god, Hamilton is ready, has been ready, wants it so much that he’d beg if he wasn’t already holding onto the last shred of his dignity by a thread.

Jefferson finally obliges him, though, starts moving in earnest, pulling out almost all the way and driving back in deep. And Hamilton does forget how to speak; the most he can do is make sounds that come close, and little words here and there like ‘please’ and ‘faster’ and he’s not sure he’s ever needed something so badly in his life. Success, power -- all these things are mere fantasies and tomorrow, he’ll return to them, but for now, they have fallen by the wayside. For now, all he needs is for Jefferson to keep doing _that_ , right there, and, and…

“Right fuckin’ _there_ ,” Hamilton manages to whimper and his voice comes out strained, shaky. “I’ll k-” and here he has to pause to swallow, to _moan_. “Kill you if you stop.”

Jefferson tries to laugh, but it’s a weak facade. Hamilton thinks it’s probably hard to be snarky when he’s intentionally tightening himself around Jefferson, squeezing his muscles like a vise, but he doesn’t expect when Jefferson begins to say something rude and instead says, “Oh, hell… you feel _so_ good, is that what you wanna hear me say, you little shit?”  
  
And Hamilton reaches up, yanks him down by the back of his neck until they’re face to face. “All. Damn. Day.” And he kisses him, rough and filthy, all teeth biting at lips and his tongue in Jefferson’s mouth and he really _does_ taste like his expensive coffee, and something else, something good, something wrong-but-right. And maybe that’s just in his DNA, or maybe it’s the stardust Hamilton thought it would be, because that must be what those riding as high on their own ego as Jefferson does must inhale. And sure, his own ego is struggling to stay inside a man as low on the totem pole as he is, because all he wants to do is rise, but it’s still in check as much as possible, even if he wants to just talk and talk and talk his way past all the things that stand in his way.

And Jefferson’s good at this, the way he’s good at everything else, and Hamilton is sure there will be a boastful look on his face tomorrow, the next day, the rest of his life. The one he gets when he talks about his 45th trip to Paris and how all the French locals love him, the one he gets when he walks out of Washington’s office with a new level of trust that Hamilton just can’t seem to get. And it frustrates him, all of it, but especially the way that Jefferson expertly manhandles him, hands on Hamilton’s thighs, rolling his hips in this way that Hamilton just can’t get enough of. How fucking wonderful that Jefferson is perfect in every way, that the fastball has been thrown and Hamilton can swing all he wants and barely tap it (no pun intended), let alone hit it out of the park.  
  
But oh, Hamilton is tired of this already, feeding the fire, trying to keep it as hateful as it began when his belly is tight with pleasure and need, when his eyes are rolling back and he’s imagining Jefferson coming inside him, all over his chest, on his lips. When he’s already straddling the fence, riding the edge of orgasm as hard as Jefferson is fucking him, because now he’s got his rhythm and won’t let up, each thrust even faster and more forceful than the last. There’s a wildness to him that Hamilton did not quite expect -- not from Jefferson who can be just as tightly buttoned up as he is sarcastic and cutting.  
  
And then he has to go and ruin it by opening his mouth the way he says Hamilton does and Hamilton wants to curse at him, yell at him to fucking _talk less_ , the way Burr’s always telling _him_. Hamilton doesn’t think he’s anywhere near as bad as Jefferson.

“Gonna remember this forever,” Jefferson groans, grinning at him. “How much you fucking wanted it.”  
  
Jefferson is watching him closely, but Hamilton doesn’t touch himself. He wants to, wants to grab his cock and finish this, but he’ll let Jefferson have his moment, let him fuck it right out of him, let him touch if he wants or not if he doesn’t, because it doesn’t matter. Hamilton can feel it blazing a path through what feels like every vein, every artery; every inch of him is _alive_ with it. And he’s closer than he wants to be. He’d admittedly let this last all night, let Jefferson take him ‘til he’s raw and sore and aching and weak and spent and utterly fucked out. But it’s not going to last another five minutes, another two, another one -

“ _Fuck!_ ” Hamilton cries out, and then he says it even when he knows Jefferson will use it against him, as with everything. “ _Thomas_!”  
  
He comes all over his stomach, shuddering, back arching, eyes shut tight, and whimpers when he feels Jefferson’s hand on his cock, stroking fast and hard and wringing out every last drop. And then he doesn’t stop, just keeps touching while Hamilton whines and whimpers and quivers until it’s too much, until Hamilton grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away.

It doesn’t take Jefferson long after that, and Hamilton thinks there’s something Jefferson likes a little too much about using him like a fucktoy, one hand gripping his thigh while he spirals toward orgasm, thrusting into him until he’s unable to contain himself any longer. That’s when he pulls free, leaving Hamilton immediately feeling the emptiness, tugs off the condom, and comes all over Hamilton’s cock, adds to the mess on his belly, nails digging into Hamilton again.

There’s a long few minutes then, separating the fucking and the inevitable. Jefferson leans over Hamilton on one shaking arm, breathing hard, not saying anything. And Hamilton lies there, still shivering now and then, legs back to wide open and inviting as much as having just come can be seen as an invitation. Although, he wouldn’t put it past Jefferson to be able to get it up point-five seconds later and want another go (not because there’s some kind of connection forming, but because Jefferson would do it if it meant Hamilton lying pliable and easily amenable to being fucked all over again).

When Jefferson finally catches his breath, he rearranges his face into that stupid smirk, the one that says he’s won, even though Hamilton isn’t sure exactly what it is he thinks his prize is. “I’m gonna go,” he says, as if Hamilton were begging him to stay.  
  
“Great,” Hamilton says, and he wishes he felt dirtier for this, wishes he felt ashamed and bitter. Instead, he’s as careless as he lets his voice sound. Or, at least he pretends to be. He’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t do it again, if he said he hadn’t enjoyed the way Jefferson instinctively took him apart and sent him straight to heaven (hell?) so fast and so well.

“Great,” Jefferson mimics and he slides out of the bed. He tosses Hamilton a stray bath towel on his bedroom floor to clean up, as if Hamilton couldn’t have found his own way to the damn bathroom. He dresses at a leisurely pace and Hamilton watches, drinking in his body as he covers it bit by bit. “You know, Alexander,” he says, “I’m sure we could be friends if you just did this more often.”

“What?” Hamilton says. “Let you fuck me?”  
  
And Jefferson shakes his head, curls swinging back and forth as if they’re laughing at him, too. “Submitted to your betters.”  
  
“Get the fuck out,” Hamilton snaps and Jefferson grins, giving him an over-exuberant, flamboyant wave before leaving the room.  
  
Hamilton waits for the apartment door to shut before he sits up, tests exactly how sore he is and how much trouble he’ll have sitting tomorrow, how many smug looks he’ll get when he winces as he very gingerly drops into his chair the next day. And even as he vows never again, the first and last time before it becomes a pasttime... as he walks to the shower, he finds himself already planning exactly how the next encounter will go. And next time, he _will_ be in control.

#

“Your signature, sir.”  
  
Hamilton hands a stack of documents to Washington, hoping that by handing them to him, he’ll have to look up. But he doesn’t even need to try today. Washington looks up at him and smiles warmly, as if Hamilton is suddenly his favoured son, his best friend.  
  
“Hamilton, sit down.”  
  
He gestures to the chair on the other side of the desk and Hamilton, with some trepidation, sits down (gingerly, as expected). “Have I done something wrong, sir?”  
  
“On the contrary,” Washington says. “Jefferson says that he met with you last night to discuss the direction we’re headed in.”  
  
Hamilton feels himself flush. “I… yes,” he says, flustered.  
  
“He says that when you were done talking, he felt confident in your abilities to rise above your station and recommended that I put some more trust in you.”  
  
“He did?” Hamilton says, and then realises that he’s supposed to act as if he knows what the hell is going on. “I mean… right. Yes.”  
  
“So tell me about what I ignored when I hired you. Tell me about your financial plans.”  
  
Hamilton collects himself as quickly as possible, begins talking rapidly, and somewhere in the middle of his ramble, he glances out the window of Washington’s office, sees Jefferson walking by and catches his eye. There’s a brief second of that smug, self-satisfied look, then a wink, and Jefferson blows him a kiss.  
  
A sense of fury rises up in Hamilton again, knowing that there’s no possible way Jefferson did him this favour out of the kindness of his heart -- if he has one at all. Hamilton knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that there’s going to be something in it for him one way or the other, and he glances back from Jefferson to Washington, then looks around toward Laurens who blushes when he’s caught staring in Hamilton’s direction. And Hamilton knows right then that he hasn't learned a goddamn thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the King Charles song "Love Lust."


End file.
